


Attendance Required

by BoneyardGracie



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoneyardGracie/pseuds/BoneyardGracie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After becoming the Champion of Kirkwall, Tybalt Hawke is expected to show up at parties. He really, really doesn't like parties. Luckily for him, there's Fenris to rescue him from busy body nobles and sad pork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attendance Required

The advantage to having Fenris with him at these parties, Tybalt notes, is a significant drop of elderly nobles ushering their tittering and giggly offspring at him, or trying to talk to him in general.

“If we escape now, we can still get jumped by those Crimson Bloodweavers that’ve been hanging around,” Hawke whispers sideways at Fenris. “That would be fun.”

“You and I need to have a talk about the meaning of that word.” Fenris grunts, glaring at the crowd that can't quite figure out what to make of the Champion taking an elf along.

Hawke imagines that that talk would also involve fighting giant rock monsters and that varterral or whatever Merrill had called it later. He’d still rather do that than be here and be subjected to all the schmoozing and backstabbing that went with these parties.

“It would be more fun than this,” Tybalt jerked his head at the nobles gravitating around each other, smiling and sliding sharp words into the other’s back when they weren’t looking.

Fenris looks over the crowd, distaste curling at the edges of his lips. “I… can’t fault your logic.”

“They ruined the pork,” Hawke continues. “I tried a bite and it made me sad. I love pork but it made me sad. It tasted like I was eating a funeral. No pig should have to give their life and end up like that. It’s-”

“Hawke.” Fenris lifts his right hand a fraction, index and ring finger twitching up. Oh, he’s getting too loud again.

Tybalt deflates. “Life was easier before this Champion nonsense. At least then only mother-” they both ignore the way his voice still catches on the word “-was trying to set me up. And no one made me come to these things.”

Or if they tried, he suspects that Leandra helpfully lost the invitations. He doesn’t know for sure and thinking too hard on it makes his heart ache.

He lets out an explosive sigh and folds in a little further on himself, rubbing his fingers on his beads. Stupid Comte D'Oeuf or whatever his name is and his stupid allergy to dogs. Typical that an Orlesian breaks out in hives around a mabari.

“Messere Hawke!” A loud, high pitched voice that wobbles like a badly set terrine, stabs through the muddy mass of sounds flooding the room.

Tybalt winces. Oh no. Maker please have mercy on his soul.

The Maker, apparently doesn’t have mercy on his wibbly little soul, or maybe He just has a perverse sense of humour and likes to watch Hawke suffer. Hawke won’t be surprised if that’s the case.

Using Fenris as a shield is bad. He can’t do that. It’s tempting, but a bad idea all around. Tybalt closes his eyes for a second, and opens them with one of the smiles he’s picked up from watching Varric pasted on his face, all broad and charming and it makes his cheeks hurt. How does Varric do this all day long?

The owner of the voice strides through the crowd, her clicking heels are even audible over the mass of voices. The only thing that keeps Tybalt standing straight and where he is rather than backing away until he hits a wall, is Fenris all pointy and prickly at his side.The back of his hand brushes against Fenris’s. He can do this.

The lady, he faintly remembers mother saying something about her family, talks a mile a minute. Her words chase each other like little yappy dogs, the kind that Yarrow could probably accidentally inhale during a bark. Does she even breathe? Oh please let her breathe. Tybalt doesn’t want to end up having to try and revive her because she talked herself unconscious.

Her mouth just keeps moving and moving, flapping endlessly.

Maybe the sad pork will shut her up. Will she notice if he quickly slips off to get her some and stuff it in her mouth? Ah, he knows that she will. It’s just wishful thinking.

The woman falls quiet, for a second. She’s probably catching her breath and Tybalt is grateful for it. Her voice is wrong, all jagged, sharp edges scraping over exposed nerves. What did Varric tell him about getting away from people about parties without subsequently having to worry about assassins on account of causing offence?

Ah.

Right.

His eyes go from the mole on the woman’s cheek to just over her shoulder. Eyebrows up, eyes slightly wider and he makes sure that his voice pitches up. See? This isn’t so hard. “Isn’t that Lord Verail?” he asks and hopes with all his heart that he got the markers for surprise right. He’s been practising at faking. Apparently knowing how to convincingly lie was as much a survival skill here as knowing at which end of a fire ball he was supposed to be in a fight.

Fireballs are easier, hands down.

Whatever his face does, it works. She turns and looks, trying to spot the lord whom Tybalt had only just invented. Hawke doesn’t pause, doesn’t stop to hesitate. He grabs Fenris’s hand and they’re off, dodging through the other attendees as if they were weaving through a line of darkspawn.

Just a line of darkspawn he’s not allowed to touch.

He has to get out of there. He has to get out of there now. The muddled voices itch and his brain feels wrapped too thin over the stretch of his thoughts in an effort to contain them. Out out out. Away. It’s better to be considered rude than to break down in front of people who will turn on him in a second if they think it will get them anything.

“Hawke!” Fenris lets himself be tugged along, if only because he dislikes the party about as much as Tybalt does. “Hawke, where are we going? What’s going on?”

Tybalt doesn’t respond, not until he blindly yanks a door open and throws himself, and thus by extension Fenris, into the room. He slams the door closed behind them and leans against it. He expels one harsh breath, his entire frame tense for a few seconds while he tries to reel himself in and fit his thoughts inside his skull again.

“Sorry,” he whispers. His voice is harsher than he intends for it to be. “It’s just- I had to get out.”

Fenris watches him for a few seconds, then nods with a faint smile. “I understand.”

It’s funny, but with Fenris, Tybalt feels as if he does understand, not in the same way that Tybalt lives it but he still understands. He doesn’t try to fix or solve or place suggestions that are intended as useful but are ultimately only frustrating. It’s good enough.

Tybalt looks around, eyes adjusting to the slight glimmer of light filtering in past the door. It’s a small room, he notes, the walls lined with shelves and supplies filling them. A faint scent of dried dawn lotus lingers in the air and pricks his nose.

“I don’t suppose we can stay here until the party is over?” Tybalt asks. He expects a no, but he still hopes.

Fenris is silent for a moment, considering as if he’s planning for battle, before he nods. Tybalt catches a curve to his lips and a glint in Fenris’s eyes that he’s become familiar with. His hearts skips up, breath catches on the heat of Fenris’s hand on the back of his neck, tugging him to stoop down.

This is a _bad_ idea. This is a _horrible_ idea. What if someone walks in on them? What if-

Tybalt’s thought process fades out the second Fenris kisses him. Who needs conscious thought anyway? Fenris smells faintly of soap and earth after a storm and Yarrow and the bed Tybalt secretly calls theirs. Tybalt’s hand tangles in Fenris’s hair, his other arm snaking around the man’s back and hauling him closer.

Fenris pulls away, leaving barely a breath between them and his fingers attack the laces on Tybalt’s trousers, grumbling soft curses Hawke can’t catch the meaning of but he’s distantly glad that he’s not the person who designed these clothes. He’s pretty sure Fenris just accused the man of having lifestock in his family line. Tybalt closes the distance between them again, swallowing a curse that quickly turns into a moan.

Fenris’s teeth catch on Tybalt’s lip, sharp enough to sting but only barely. His fingers trace patterns over Tybalt’s stomach, causing the mage to shiver.

“Tease,” Tybalt complains in a whine. He doesn’t get a reply, not in words at least. Fenris’s laugh is no more than a low vibration against Tybalt’s neck that snakes through his body and into his heart. He finally gets his own hands to move. They feel large and clumsy next to Fenris. Maybe he should just cut the laces. He has that dagger Isabela slipped him for emergencies, but Fenris’s trousers are less finicky than his own. He tugs the last knot lose with a victorious little huff just as Fenris’s fingers skim over his hips and push Hawke’s trousers down.

They fumble, for a second, arms knocking into each other for need to touch and have and feel until Fenris drags him close, kissing Hawke as if this is his only chance.

Groaning and aware of every inch of heated skin pressed against each other, Tybalt manages to get one of his hands between the two of them and wraps around Fenris’s erection, drawing a gasp and a half bitten back curse from his partner. He has to lower a little – it’s never this awkward in the stories he’s read – but manages with only the slightest of pauses and a brief impatient growl from Fenris, to get his hand around the both of them.

Fenris tears away from the kiss, whispering curses and praise against Tybalt’s throat. His hips tremble, move in time with Tybalt’s hurried strokes and he clings to the human. Tybalt can the elf’s fingernails digging into his back. Bruises, at the very least. Doesn’t matter, all that matters is here and now with nothing else to concern them. He quickens his pace, shaking and biting his lips to try and keep quiet until Fenris cries out, followed by Hawke’s own.

Tybalt sags back against the door. He feels Fenris against his chest and, gasping for breath, wraps his arms around the elf.

They’re quiet, for a moment, until Tybalt laughs. His limbs feel like jittery. Every drop of sweat, the way his pants are shoved halfway down and the wrinkles in his shirt become all too present again. “We should- we should get going,” he says after another moment, nuzzling into Fenris’s hair.

Fenris huffs against his chest.

“If they catch us with our trousers down- well, that will definitely be worse than the thing Isabela did.”

Fenris shifts, peering up at Hawke. His eyes glint in the dark. “Nothing,” he says, with rough certainty, “could be that-”

He never gets to finish the sentence. The door opens and Tybalt goes with it. He hits the floor with Fenris on top of him. The breath is knocked out of him and he blinks against the sudden light for a second. A face swims into focus.

One of the elven servants, all big eyed and more than a little scandalized.

Why has he never asked Merril to look into a ‘ground opens up and swallows me whole’ spell? This is the perfect time for that.

They scramble to their feet, quickly tugging their clothes up. This time, Fenris grabs Tybalt by the arm and takes off to escape.


End file.
